


Around Again, Like Clockwork

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Child Abandonment, Dadgil, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Toddler Nero, cross-posted from twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: Nero yanks on the matron's sleeve. Her scowl tears through him like lightning, hard and hot and fast. She doesn't like him, that's no surprise. There isn't a soul who savors his presence but he's too young to understand what that means.(What's there for a three-year-old to understand?)Russian Translation
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 267





	Around Again, Like Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [И снова по кругу как часы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459299) by [MaraGrib](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraGrib/pseuds/MaraGrib)



> As the tags say, I originally posted this on twitter and got some people asking if I would cross-post it to AO3 to make it easier to find. I got a surprising amount of love for it, so I'm glad people liked it! 
> 
> This piece was inspired by an artwork which can be found [here.](https://twitter.com/vkvksrP/status/1204098800588972032)

Nero yanks on the matron's sleeve. Her scowl tears through him like lightning, hard and hot and fast. She doesn't like him, that's no surprise. There isn't a soul who savors his presence but he's too young to understand what that means. The roiling sensation in his stomach and why he has to fight to not wither under her gaze? He's too young to understand what that means either. He just points in quiet enthusiasm to the spinning carousel. Around it goes, singing joyful music and carrying ecstatic children and he so badly wants to participate that it sings. He practically gallops with joy when the matron allows it. 

He gets in line for the next go around and the ride operator, a young man, wrinkles his nose at Nero, fixed on his bright eyes and white hair. But he notes how Nero's arm is set in a cast and gives him a pitying look. He hoists Nero onto a pure white horse with an ebony mane. 

(What's there to understand for a three-year-old, anyway? He's unloved and unwanted, everyone burns with hatred when they see him, and there is naught a heart to spare him a bit of kindness but that's just the world as far as Nero knows. He thinks everyone is treated the same way he is.)

He makes one of his rare happy screams as he goes around, bouncing on the saddle and begging to go again. The operator seems almost charmed by Nero's innocent excitement and he allows it, over and over again, ignoring the matron's thin and slipping patience. 

(What's there for a three-year-old to understand?)

The sunset lights the sky ablaze in hues of orange and pink by the time Nero wears himself out. When he's gotten off, the operator tips his hat and strolls away with a whistling tune and not much else to accompany the deafening quiet. Much to Nero's horror, he cannot find the matron. He stands there on the cold and barren dock, looking around, waiting for her to come for him as his heart thrums painfully against his ribs. He doesn't know how long he waits, his stubby childlike composure isn't much to subsist on or to drive the boredom away. Instead, he turns around and scrabbles for purchase on the white horse's stirrups. He clings to the pole with his one good hand and tries repeatedly to heave himself up. His muscles ache after what feels like an eternity of failure until finally his fingers slip and he can feel the world tilting on its axis.

He doesn't shout, he doesn't know why he's painstakingly quiet as he waits for the oncoming strike of the ground against his body. Strangely, it never comes, instead, there's something warm and soft holding him steady, lifting him effortlessly until he can climb on the saddle again. 

He can't quite place the feeling, the inner peace of this stranger who has just saved him and helped him get to where he wants to go. But he knows as soon as he tilts his head up and stares at this stranger—a man with snowy white hair and bright eyes like his, a man whose somber smile makes Nero want to smile too—is one word he does understand. 

Safe. 

The man extends an arm to him, offering him that safety. Nero holds his free hand out, mimicking the way other kids asked to be picked up and in a moment he's situated against the soft blue silk of the stranger's coat, nestled into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He whispers something sweet to him, a hoarse voice telling him of home. When the stranger says his name, Nero decides that this is the only person he ever wants to hear say it again. 

(What's there for a three-year-old to understand? He's loved and wanted and the burning soul in this stranger's chest speaks to him like no other. He's safe.)

The cool rasp of the stranger's voice is his first lullaby. 


End file.
